


Faces Chosen

by Euterpein



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25265683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: He had figured out in those earliest of days that every creature saw in him whatever they wanted to see--whatever or whoever they desired most in that moment, superimposed onto him like a reflection on still water. They could touch him, feel him, and only ever feel what they wanted to feel.Crowley has spent the past six thousand years avoiding the question he most dreaded the answer to: what did Aziraphale see when he looked at him? In the wake of the failed apocalypse, he finally finds the courage to ask, but Aziraphale's answer is nothing close to what he'd imagined...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 124
Kudos: 586





	Faces Chosen

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree) for the beta!

The thing was--the thing _was--_

The thing was, that Crowley was _good_ at his job. It wasn’t always fun, or easy, especially when he was working on a directive from Down Below, but he was good at it.

Part of this was due to the fact that, in a manner of speaking, Crowley _was_ his job. He was the Tempter. The one, the only, the original. The best. And he was the best because of his ability (or curse, but it would be several thousand years before he would admit it for what it was) to become exactly who he needed to be at any given time. 

It had been in place since the Beginning. Since he had first crawled his way out of the sulphur pits, screaming and weeping, and had witnessed how every demon he encountered treated him a little differently. They had turned their eyes to him in hunger, a hunger for comfort or for flesh or even for a forgiveness they could neither ask for nor receive. Not from him. 

He had figured out in those earliest of days that every creature saw in him whatever they wanted to see--whatever or whoever they desired most in that moment, superimposed onto him like a reflection on still water. They could touch him, feel him, and only ever feel what they wanted to feel. 

He had learned to use his ability to his advantage with all the speed that a realm full of greedy demons could incite in a being literally designed to be the object of that greed. He had slithered into the good graces of Satan himself (he didn't think about whatever it was that the once-Morningstar saw in him, for his own sanity's sake) and got himself a measure of protection, of favour. 

It had been that favour, and his abilities, that had gotten him sent up to Earth in the first place. "Go up there and make trouble," they had said, but he knew what that had meant: " _Go up there and Tempt them, and teach them the consequences of giving in to their deepest desires,_ " which he had done. He had gone up there and appeared to Eve as that which she had most desperately wished for (a friend, oh God, she had just wanted a _friend_ ) and, well, the rest was history. 

Human history, at least. Aziraphale hadn't reacted the way he had expected him to when they had met on the wall. He had been hesitant, friendly but wary, had treated Crowley as though he were just any other demon with a penchant for making civil conversation in place of throwing curses. Crowley had assumed the angel was just too polite to comment on it; he had only really had experience with demons and humans, after all, and neither were known for their self-restraint.

Later, when he had gotten the chance to interact with other angels that had walked the Earth in the early days of humanity (none of which had been as pleasant and un-smitey as his conversations with Aziraphale were), he had confirmed that his powers worked on angels just as well as anyone else. 

Aziraphale didn't comment much on Crowley's appearance. He would comment on the weather, on the various machinations of the humans throughout their storied histories. He would comment on Crowley's wickedness, his sin, his propensity for lying (though Crowley knew this was more for appearance’s sake than anything else, considering that the angel almost never seemed to actually mind his presence), but very rarely on the way he looked. 

The subject of what the angel saw in him became something of an obsession over the years. Every time Aziraphale seemed to take interest in a human for a reason other than work Crowley would scrutinize their image. Did he have that fruit-seller's hair, that woman's eyes? Was he pleasantly plump like the corporation Aziraphale seemed to enjoy for himself so very much? The angel seemed to lean towards artists and kind souls. Crowley couldn't imagine a version of himself that looked kind, not when it was fire-red hair and snake's eyes reflected back at him in every mirror, but deep down (in a part of himself he couldn't acknowledge, not yet) he liked the idea that Aziraphale might see him that way. 

He came close to asking many times. As they grew to know each other better over the millennia and Aziraphale would let some little hint of what he saw slip: "I'm sure you won't have any trouble sweet talking _him,_ my dear," or "Are you sure that outfit is quite appropriate?" or, "Oh, don't give me that look, it won't work." Every time he would have to bite his tongue against the question. He never did ask, though. He never could. 

It was cowardice, pure and simple. He wasn't sure what he _hoped_ Aziraphale saw, but the possibilities for what he _could_ see seemed too horrible to contemplate. What if he saw some impossibly handsome bloke, all come-hither eyes and tanned skin? The way Aziraphale would occasionally look him up and down, expression a hodgepodge of disapproval and arousal and fear, seemed to lean towards that option (and the fear behind it, the real one: what if Crowley couldn't measure up?) What if he saw some genial character, all soft and pink and perfect like himself? Crowley's ribs could be seen through the skin, and he had far too many of them. Crowley's body had scales in odd places, nails that were a little too sharp not to be claws if he didn't remember to trim them, serpent's eyes that he hid behind sunglasses even though no-one could see them. 

In the end, it didn't really matter what Aziraphale saw. No matter what it was, no matter whether he saw a lover or a friend or a stranger, it would only ever be an illusion. He would never see _Crowley._

That thought was always what stayed his tongue when the temptation grew to ask Aziraphale for details about his appearance. It sat between them as they argued over holy water in St. James' Park. It was carried in their breaths in the Bentley as he drove his angel home from a ruined church, as a terrifyingly innocuous thermos was passed from one pair of hands to another. It whispered to him as the world as he knew it drew closer and closer to its end: _Ask him now_ , it said, _before you lose the chance forever._

He didn't. 

Instead, he kept going just as he had for the past six-odd millenia and pretended like it wasn’t a problem, pretended like he didn’t care if he spent nearly every last moment of his existence _not knowing_ , pretended like it wasn’t the worst kind of torture. 

And then the world didn’t end. It kept on spinning, miraculously, or perhaps just _humanly_ , with Heaven and Hell off their tails, with good and evil and the whole bloody lot of it all as it should be. With _them_ as they should be.

Which is exactly how they had ended up where they were: in the back of the bookshop, drinking wine older than the building that housed them, celebrating a job well done. They were sitting on the same sofa for once, something they had never done before, which both of them had very carefully failed to acknowledge lest they ruin the moment. The nearness of Aziraphale was more intoxicating than the wine. He had been this close to him before, of course he had, but never like this--huddled together on the sofa, a mere hair’s breadth from their thighs brushing, not worrying even a little bit who might be watching. 

Aziraphale was staring at him, he noted. He had been all night. That angelic gaze that usually wandered restlessly, avoiding looking directly at Crowley like even the sight of him might drive him into sin, had been fixed firmly on his face since they had dined at the Ritz. It was a new sensation, and a heady one. Crowley couldn’t help but bask in it like a snake in a patch of warm sun.

He also recognized it for what it was, or thought he did; he had seen the angel lust after cakes and bottles and other tidbits too often to not recognize his look of _hunger_ when he saw it. It was dangerous. It was _intoxicating._ It drew Crowley in like a moth to a flame, and he knew that despite holding the title of the Tempter of Humanity, he had well and truly met his match.

He also knew that there was no moving forward in that direction until he had asked Aziraphale the question he had been avoiding asking him since the Beginning. He had to _know_. It had the potential to destroy him more thoroughly than any holy water, but kissing Aziraphale without knowing what he saw would be far worse. It would be... it would be _sacrilege_. Blasphemy against the only Faith he had left, which happened to be sitting so close he could reach out and touch if he wanted. 

And _oh_ , did he want.

“Aziraphale, would you...answer a question, for me?” His voice was hushed in the quiet stillness of the back room, low enough to cover the slight tremble hidden in it.

Aziraphale gave him a warm smile. The wine had caused a delicate blush to creep its way fetchingly up his cheeks, adding to the general aura of joy and comfort that spilled out around him. “Of course, my dear. What’s on your mind?”

Crowley shifted slightly, uncomfortable, very careful not to let his thigh brush up against Aziraphale’s. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet the angel’s eyes. “Can you tell me--what do I look like?”

“I’m...sorry?” Aziraphale said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Crowley sighed. “I mean, when you look at me, what do you see? What does my hair look like, my face? My...” he swallowed, “my eyes?”

“I’m still not understanding you, I’m afraid, my dear. I saw the mirror in your flat, I know you own one. Why do you need me to tell you what you look like?”

“I know what I look like to _me_ , angel, but I can’t tell what _you_ see. That’s not how it works.”

Aziraphale was starting to look a little frustrated, and Crowley couldn’t blame him. It felt like he was missing something here, or maybe both of them were, but he wasn’t sure what it was. 

“How _what_ works, Crowley? You’re speaking in riddles now.”

“The thingy--my power or whatever, where I look different to everyone who sees me. I don’t know what the person looking at me sees exactly, only that it’s whatever they want to see most.”

Aziraphale stared at him, mouth slightly open, for what seemed like an age. “I wasn’t aware that was an...ability of yours, my dear.” 

“What, really?”

“I don’t believe you’ve mentioned it before.” His voice was a little strained, as though he was trying to hold back some strong emotion and not doing a particularly good job of it.

Crowley scrunched his face up in thought. “Must’ve done. I talked about it in--no, that was something else. Babylon, maybe?”

“I should think I would have remembered something like that, Crowley.” 

“Oh.” He shifted again, taking a long swig from his wine to cover his disorientation. “Well, that’s--okay. It’s a thing. I’m sorry, I really thought--never mind.” He took a steadying breath in; out. “People see what they want to see when they look at me. _Whatever_ they want to see, so long as it’s human-shaped, I suppose. So, what do _you_ see when you look at me?”

Aziraphale’s face flashed through a few different expressions at a rapid-fire pace--hurt, sadness, something almost like loss--before he seemed to get control over himself again. 

“I see someone who is currently a man,” he quirked an eyebrow at Crowley at that, confirming that the pronouns he’d been going with the past couple hundred years still applied, waiting for his nod before continuing, “in his, oh, mid-forties or so. Red hair, styled short, though it hasn’t always been so. For a very long time it was long. Curly and lovely.”

Crowley heard an odd pounding noise and realized it was his own heartbeat, echoing wildly in his ears. Surely that couldn’t be right--surely Aziraphale couldn’t be describing--

“He’s wearing black trousers in a dreadfully uncomfortable-looking tight cut, a black t-shirt, a fiddly little...thing. Would you call that a scarf? Hmm, perhaps not. He’s got wonderful yellow eyes, slit down the middle like a snake, which he always hides away behind sunglasses. He’s very thin, and very lovely, and--” Aziraphale was cut off by the sudden press of lips to his own, the sudden weight of a demon in his lap. He made a surprised little “mrph!” noise as the wine glass in his hand was knocked away, shattering on the floor.

There was the space of a few heartbeats where Crowley wasn’t sure how Aziraphale was going to react, where he was frozen to the spot beneath him. Then, those perfect lips parted on a moan and strong hands clamped down on Crowley’s knife-sharp hips, and Crowley could have _cried_ with how good they felt. 

Crowley kissed him with a fervor, with a fever. All those years, those _millenia_ , all those secrets shared and arguments fought and _life_ lived together, and Aziraphale had been seeing him. Had seen the real him, the same version he saw in the mirror, the same one that She had carved out of the void so long ago and then cast out of her Grace to Fall and wither and burn. Aziraphale had seen it all.

“Mmm--darling,” Aziraphale tried, only managing to pull back a few moments before Crowley launched himself forward again, fueled by a need too great to withstand. “Crow--my dear, I don’t-- _Crowley_!” He brought one of his hands to curl into Crowley’s short strands, holding his head in place rather than actually pulling. Crowley did the pulling for him, launching himself forward and whining at the sharp tugging at his scalp which prevented him from getting to his angel.

“Crowley, as much as I would love to keep doing that, and I _would_ , thank you, I don’t quite understand. What did I say that inspired...this?”

Crowley tried almost instinctively to twist out of the angel’s grip, but finally some manner of sense seemed to catch up to him. “You--the--the person you see when you look at me.” He started, the words tripping over themselves on his tongue.

Aziraphale’s expression darkened again, briefly. “Ah, yes. I must admit, I’m more than a little disappointed about that. Not that what I see isn’t absolutely lovely, mind, but knowing that it’s what I _want_ to see and not how you actually _are_ is a little, well... She does play cruel jokes sometimes, doesn’t She?”

Crowley let out a laugh that was half a sob, and more than a little hysterical. “No, angel, that’s--that _is_ me. What you see, that’s how I look. For real.”

“But I thought you said--what about your ability?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, honestly, still feeling so light and bubbly he could have floated right out of the room. “I don’t know how and I don’t know why, angel. As far as I know, no-one’s ever seen me before. The real me, I mean.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked torn between delighted and faintly alarmed. “And that’s why you felt the need to ‘leap my bones,’ as it were?”

Crowley couldn’t even bring himself to groan at that. He slipped his hands up to frame Aziraphale’s face, gazing down at him with what he knew was a horrifically dopey smile. “Angel, when people look at me, they see their deepest desires. They see whatever, whoever, they want most in all the world. They see their greatest _temptation_. The fact that you’ve seen the real me right from the very beginning--it’s--I mean it’s--”

“It means the thing I want most in all the world is you,” Aziraphale whispered. His eyes had gone soft, his voice low. “Darling, I could have told you that.” His hands weren’t so much holding Crowley back anymore as cradling his head gently, and now he brought them around to swipe a thumb through the tears Crowley hadn’t noticed tracking down his cheeks. “I have wanted you right from the Beginning. I saw you on the wall and you were so lovely, so _curious_ , and so very unlike any other creature I’d ever met. I wanted to get to know you. Wanted to touch you. Wanted to kiss you.” His warm thumb swiped over Crowley’s bottom lip, causing him to shiver.

And really, what more could Crowley say to that? Aziraphale didn’t stop him when he leaned in this time, merely burying his fingers in Crowley’s hair once again as their lips pressed together in a gentle slide. 

Crowley didn’t understand how it was possible he could have this; demons didn’t get happy endings. Not even demons on their own side with certain fussy, perfect angels. Maybe it was all a part of Her plan after all. Maybe it was just one of those things that happened in the great, swirling chaos that was any universe that happened to contain humans within it.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Aziraphale wanted him for who he truly was, for the person he had always been and the person he had grown to become. He had known Crowley’s faults, had tasted his triumphs, had stood with him through the end of the world and looked to be staying with him beyond it. And Crowley was never, _ever_ , letting him go.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this! I'm not much of an angst writer, but this little plot bunny hopped into my head and refused to leave again.


End file.
